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Edna’s head. “I’m sorry about my cousin. He doesn’t have any manners.”
    Edna’s lips thinned. “You’re that Mike Krawbach’s cousin?”
    “Smythe bought his hat and gloves at my store,” Opal said. “They look great, Smythe.”
    The hat was a whimsical stocking cap, knit in yellow and black stripes, complete with a hand-knit stinger at the crown. “Smythe Castor,” he introduced himself, removing his yellow and black striped gloves and looking deep into my eyes. “Haylee told me all about you.” Trust Haylee to know all the handsomest men in the county.
    “What’re you doing here, Smythe?” Herb yelled. “I thought you were in Erie.”
    Smythe smiled. “I’m on my way there this very minute.”
    “And you said to hold your mail for three days?” Herb asked.
    “That’s right.” Smythe’s yellow parka perfectly matched the yellow stripes in his hat and gloves.
    Herb’s grin grew. “And what’s the name of the conference where you’re speaking?”
    Smythe looked adorable when he blushed. “The Honey Makers’ Conference.”
    Herb smacked his thigh with his good hand. “Looks like he’s trying to make some honey right here and now.”
    The men around the stove guffawed.
    Opal nudged me and murmured, “Mmmm.”
    His face scarlet, Smythe ran out of the hardware store.
    Sam called out, “Okay, Willow, we found two matching packages.”
    I paid for my padlocks. Clay left with me, and so did Opal, Naomi, and Edna, presumably to finish their interrupted cocktails.
    Clay opened his truck door. “I’ll call you tomorrow so we can set up a time to go through Blueberry Cottage together.”
    “Okay,” I managed, at my loquacious best.
    After I was inside my shop, Mike Krawbach strode past, squinting toward In Stitches as if he were trying to see inside. I stayed very still. He climbed into his pickup and peeled away. Had he gone to The Ironmonger after we left, or had he been in my backyard, gloating over land he was planning to steal for outhouses?
    I went outside, fastened my new padlocks to the gates, and made certain they were locked before I let the dogs join me. They did their usual mad dashes. If they were tracking a trespasser, it wasn’t obvious where the trespasser had gone. On the other hand, I wouldn’t put it past Mike to zigzag erratically all over my yard. I took the dogs inside.
    Sally and Tally each had a bed embroidered with their names and, thanks to my computer and software, very realistic embroidered portraits of their faces, but tonight they cuddled together on Tally’s bed, probably to dream of running unfettered along the river trail. I would dream of having Mike’s zoning decision quashed so I could renovate Blueberry Cottage and rent it out. Or maybe of doing so well in my embroidery shop that I would never regret leaving a lucrative career in Manhattan. I would not, of course, consider dreaming about Elderberry Bay’s heartthrobs, Clay Fraser, Smythe Castor, and Herb Gunthrie.
    Dreaming about heartthrobs would have been better than the nightmare about the roaring menace bearing down on me. Barking madly, the dogs woke me up. An engine roared behind Blueberry Cottage. No one should be driving there, especially at four in the morning. The noisy engine stopped suddenly, as if someone had shut it off.
    Still groggy, I pulled my embroidered duvet over my ears. The dogs added whining and pawing at the back door to their entreaties. I buried my head underneath the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. The dogs’ barking became frantic.
    Mike Krawbach could be out there wrecking Blueberry Cottage so he could replace it with outhouses. I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the windows.
    Blueberry Cottage was a dark blur. It was fine.
    Tally revved up his whimpering until he sounded more like a goose than a dog. Clumsy with adrenaline-interrupted sleep, I patted around in the dark for my jeans, sweater, boots, coat, scarf, hat, and mittens. Putting them on seemed to take